Day eight of the tedious office job and life’s still one long and boring rollercoaster. Or, to be more precise, a slow children’s teacup ride.

Jamal didn’t come in again and HR are on the case to hunt him down. This morning I was quizzed by two airhead company drones who asked whether I’d heard from him in the last couple of days. With wide eyes and a fake worried expression, I lied through my teeth and said that I hadn’t heard from him at all and I hoped that he was okay. I told them this while fantasising about smashing in his skull the next time he dared to cross my path.

I’ve tried calling the bastard, leaving voicemail after voicemail about how much I hate him, asking why he decided to come and fuck up my life a week ago, and what right did he have to send Mark those photos? What the hell is wrong with him? Did his parents repeatedly drop him on his head when he was a baby? The last time I tried calling there wasn’t a voicemail message anymore; instead a bland robotic voice told me, ‘The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.’ I tried not to throw my phone across the room in a fit of rage.

Today is the last day I’m coming into this office, I’ve decided. I’ve had it with Jamal. He can go to hell. He can go ahead and kill me for not doing as he says, or get someone else in his nefarious (and probably fictional) organisation to do it for him.

I select all of the emails in my inbox and Thomas’ (he hasn’t bothered to show up for work either this morning) and then mass delete them, so my time isn’t wasted anymore by idiotic simpletons who have nothing better to do with their time than send me uninteresting messages. Reducing my administrative burden makes me feel wonderful and I get up and make myself a celebratory cup of coffee, into which I’ll pour a vast amount of whisky from the hipflask I’ve smuggled into the office.

Millie skips into the kitchenette and smiles inanely at me, hands behind her back like she can’t contain her excitement anymore and wants to announce that she’s won the lottery or it’s her birthday and daddy dearest has bought her a Porsche. I force myself not to say anything to burst her bubble. Pop and her whole body would deflate and she’d go sailing out of the window, which has been cracked open to prevent the stench of the bin from contaminating the entire office. The smell might have been caused by me this morning when I decided to remove all of the out-of-date items in the fridge, throwing them aggressively into the bin in order to simply wedge a tiny carton of milk into the door. How I wished that I could chuck the food at certain colleagues instead.

‘Guess what?’ Millie asks, and I want to throw my hot coffee in her face for being so irritating yet cute.

‘You killed your boyfriend? Then you decided to donate his body to medical research so that they can dissect him and study why all men are such fucktards?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she laughs hysterically, sounding like a bird who’s trying to escape from a cat’s claws. For every reason known to man, I’m the catty one today.

‘Well…?’ I ask, trying not to sound any more annoyed than I actually am.

‘I dumped his arse!’ she almost screams in my face, followed by more laughter. ‘Can you believe it? I did exactly as you suggested. I even threw his clothes down the stairs into the hallway. And then I stuck a cabinet in front of the door so he couldn’t get in last night!’

Okay, so this news actually does fill me with a minuscule amount of joy and pride. Now Millie won’t be taken advantage of by her shitty boyfriend who, by the sound of it, does fuck all apart from sleep around behind her back.

‘I’m impressed,’ I tell her. I don’t shower her in praise in case she’s further buoyed by her newly-found self-confidence and decides to march downstairs and have a go at HR for not giving her the pay rise that they promised her two years ago. ‘How do you feel?’ As if I couldn’t tell from her slightly manic expression.

‘I feel amazing!’ she exclaims. ‘And I just went downstairs and demanded that HR give me that pay rise or else I’m going to quit.’

Oh, too late. Millie still works in predictable ways. ‘You shouldn’t be overly demanding though, you know?’ I caution her. ‘After all, you’ll have to pay more rent now that… Jonathan is out of the picture.’ I think his name’s Jonathan.

‘Yeah, you’re right... Thank you for everything.’ Suddenly she hugs me tightly and it feels oddly comforting. I wish I could share all of my fucked-up problems with her as well. She could help me out by giving me useful advice on how to escape the country or by sewing an invisible blanket into which I could disappear for the rest of my life.

As she skips back to her desk, I stare at her and yearn to be that young and naïve again. Only in her twenties, the rest of her life is stretched out for miles in front of her, whereas I only have days to live if Jamal’s threats are to be believed. Hopefully he’ll kill me quickly. Or maybe he’ll just withdraw all of the money from my bank account as punishment, and I’ll remain a bitchy pauper for the rest of my years. At least I’d be alive though.

Tiny granules float on top of my black coffee and I try to stir them in. They don’t dissolve and I give up, pouring a tsunami of milk over them instead. I pick up my mug and think that I’ll skip back to my desk too. I’ll try to copy Millie from now on and pretend that I don’t have a care in the world. And it’s time for whisky!

But then everything turns to shit: I spot Mark walking into the office from across the room. My mug nearly falls to the floor. I catch it just in time, but hot coffee sloshes all the way down my new white blouse. Fuck, why is he here?

Mark sees me and marches over. He looks pissed. I don’t know what to do. I decide to stare down at my chest, mopping up the brown sludge with kitchen roll. Maybe if I focus on the stain then I won’t have to look him in the eye.

‘I need to talk to you.’

I look up and my heart melts because I’ve fucked up so badly with him. He was the best sex I’ve ever had.

‘Okay,’ I say meekly, wondering whether this is it: breakup time.

‘Is Thomas in?’ Does he know that Thomas was the guy in the photos?

‘No. Let’s go into his office…’ I pick up my half-spilt coffee. ‘Do you want a drink?’ British politeness dictates that I should ask him this question, but he just glares at me like his answer is obvious. ‘Right, so that’s a “no” then.’

I follow him into the office and close the door behind us, then I drop my hot mug down on the desk before it burns my hands off.

‘I’m sorry, Mark,’ I blurt out. ‘I’m really sorry for last night.’

‘Just for last night?’

I bite my lip. I don’t know what to say.

‘Was it just that night?’ he asks.

‘What?’

‘How many times have you fucked him?’ he asks angrily.

‘Really, you want to talk about this here?’ I look out into the office and notice all of the nosey bitches sticking up their heads like meerkats. I want to ask in an innocent voice, ‘Fucked who?’ but I’m pretty sure he knows that I had sex with Thomas at the party.

‘I want to have this conversation here. Because you never answer your fucking phone and you ran away from me last night. I got locked out, by the way.’

I try not to smile at that information. It’s not very funny, but I can imagine him standing there in bare feet begging his neighbours to be let back in.

‘I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I fucked him, okay? But you were on a date with Ursula that night.’

See, I have an excuse. Now if only I could explain why there were dozens of photos of me screwing Thomas in that folder. How am I supposed to explain that away?

‘I was not on a date. I only work with Ursula.’

‘That’s not what it looked like and you know it! You looked guilty.’

Play defensive. Then maybe there’s a very slim chance that we can get back together. (Really? Who am I kidding?)

I want to get out of here. I want to go home and climb into bed and emerge decades later without a memory, wrinkled and shrivelled, a shell of the woman I used to be, empty takeaway containers and chocolate boxes strewn across my bedroom floor. I’d pay my cleaner a bit extra to be my carer, which is why she wouldn’t have time to clean up after me properly anymore.

‘Maybe I looked guilty because I knew what it looked like,’ Mark explains. ‘I didn’t want you thinking that I’m seeing other women. Because I’m not. I tried to explain that to you at the party.’

‘But you did sleep with her once.’

‘So, what, you got jealous and decided to fuck Thomas?’

Shit, he knows that it was Thomas. Seeing Mark with Ursula did piss me off and give me another reason to fuck Thomas though.

‘I was pissed at you,’ I admit.

‘Nothing happened with Ursula, I promise. I like you. A lot. I don’t want to sleep with other women. And I don’t want you to sleep with other men either.’

My heart flutters in my chest, but I try to dismiss the fact that I feel like a teenager who’s just been asked to Prom. Maybe we can get back together. But what if I fuck this up again? Or what if Jamal is persistent and continues with his campaign to try to split us up? What if I put Mark in danger just by seeing him?

‘I need some time, Mark,’ I tell him. ‘I need a few days to figure stuff out.’

There it is: his hurt little boy look. I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t want him to get hurt either. I need time to figure out whether this whole Jamal debacle is over yet.

‘Okay,’ he says, turning away from me. Then he notices the picture of Thomas’ family on the desk. ‘When is he in? I want to talk to him too.’

‘And say what?’ I ask, afraid that this is exactly what Jamal didn’t want to happen.

‘Where did those photos come from, Julianne? I can’t work it out. Is Thomas being blackmailed? And why send those photos to me?’

How do I explain something to him that I’m not even sure about? If I told Mark the truth then he’d want to get involved and try to protect me, and that might mess everything up even more than it is already. Can I blame bastard Jamal for everything, who Mark’s seen a couple of times before, including when he grabbed my arm at the bar? Mark doesn’t know that Jamal is my (sort of) pimp though; I don’t want him to find out that I’ve been working for him.

‘There’s this guy who used to work here called Jamal,’ I explain, figuring out my lie on the fly. This story will be closer to the truth than Mark realises. ‘You’ve seen him before: the guy I left Amelia’s party with. The guy who grabbed my arm at the bar that night we… you know, first hooked up.’ I sigh for dramatic effect, as if I’m upset. ‘He’s stalking me. He took those photos and threatened Thomas with them. And he probably sent them to you too because he’s jealous of you as well.’

I see doubt creeping across Mark’s face. He’s a lawyer, so does that mean that he’s a trained lie detector like Amelia? ‘You’re being stalked?’

‘I only found out last night. I didn’t know that he’d sent you those photos too. I was embarrassed, not just by the photos but because you’d found out about Thomas. That’s why I ran.’

Wow, have I scored one for Team Julianne and told such a convincing lie that it’s worthy of an Oscar or an Emmy? I wish they’d give out prizes for amazing lies told spur of the moment.

‘Have you reported him to the police?’

Yes or no? How do I answer that one? ‘No.’ Shit, I hope that Mark doesn’t go to the police himself. ‘I don’t want to fuck up Thomas’ campaign. Or his marriage. And I don’t want to lose my job here.’ God, that was a lie of epic proportions.

‘Where’s Jamal now?’

‘Missing,’ I tell him. ‘He hasn’t come into the office for two days.’

Does any of this sound believable? Nowadays it’s difficult for me to tell the difference between the truth and a lie.

‘Missing?’ exclaims Mark. ‘Nobody knows where he is? You need to go to the police.’

‘HR will.’ Maybe they will if they don’t find him. Or they’ll just draw a big cross through his employee record and file him away as: ‘Missing in action.’

‘Julianne, you could be in danger if you don’t –’

Thomas appears at the door, looking confused about why we’re in his office. Mark glares at him and opens the door. ‘Finally turned up, have you?’

‘Mark!’ I warn him. Thomas is still my boss, at least for now, and everyone in the office is staring at us like they’re watching a movie.

Mark gives me a less-than-innocent, ‘What?’ look before shutting the door so no one can hear what he’s about to say.

Thomas puts down his laptop bag and takes off his coat, looking at me questioningly, not having any clue what this is about. ‘Mark, isn’t it?’ he asks, not understanding why Mark’s in his office. ‘Are you here to make a donation to the hospice?’

Mark laughs. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

Again Thomas looks at me, his eyes panicked in case I’ve told Mark about our brief fuck the other night. God, what if Mark tells him about the photos?

‘So Jamal’s gone missing?’ Mark asks, like this is a test.

‘Yes…’ Thomas answers, unsure of why he’s asking about Jamal.

‘Is that because he knows about the two of you?’ Mark raises his voice.

It’s kind of sexy that Mark’s all angry and concerned for me. If only Thomas was properly into me then the two of them might have a brutal fistfight over yours truly. A fight to the death over me: one of my all-time-favourite narcissistic fantasies.

Thomas narrows his eyes at me, as if his mind is screaming that I’m such a bitch for kissing and telling.

‘Don’t look at her like that!’ Mark yells. ‘You’re fucking married. What the hell were you thinking?’

Good question, although a bit naïve. Maybe Thomas thought that I was still sexy and attractive, and he remembered how good I was so many years ago.

‘It’s none of your business. Get out of my office!’ yells Thomas.

‘Don’t touch her again,’ threatens Mark. ‘Or even look at her. If you do, I’m going to sue you and your shitty company into the ground.’

Oh, Mark! It’s so romantic that he cares and would sue someone over the mere fact that I fucked someone else. Also I think I got away with my lie about Jamal being a stalker.

Mark storms out and I don’t know whether or not to follow him. I give Thomas a guilty look before chasing Mark across the office. Everyone’s pretending not to stare, but they do a shit job of hiding their pricked-up ears.

‘Mark!’ I try to catch up with him.

He stops at the top of the stairs and turns to face me. ‘I’m sorry I lost it with him,’ he says, looking angry with himself. His definition of ‘lost it’ doesn’t fit with mine; if our positions were reversed I would have beaten Thomas to a bloody pulp with my manly fists. ‘Look, when – or if – you want to give this another shot, you know where I am… I can’t wait forever though.’

Then he runs down the stairs and I feel like I’m the leading lady in a chick flick staring after my man and pining over him now that he’s gone. I imagine the camera zooming in on my little sad face then fading to black. If only I could edit real life like that. I’d cut out the boring bits and play all of my sexual encounters back-to-back. Or maybe I’d just repeat my first night with Mark over and over.

Walking back into the office I try to ignore the sea of middle-aged women looking disapprovingly at me. What did they just overhear? Do they know about Thomas and me? I feel guilty now because if anyone in here finds out about us then chances are that Christine will find out too. And maybe Thomas’ kids. Although I don’t exactly feel torn up about what I did to Thomas, I don’t want any more drama. Sex should be private between individuals, not caught on camera and advertised with some blurry photos and then yelling in an office.

Briefly I stare at the angry profile of Thomas taking out his laptop. Then the prick has the nerve to pick up my mug of coffee and start drinking it!

I knock on his glass wall, run in quickly and shut the door. ‘Hi,’ I say awkwardly, trying not to sound annoyed about the coffee. ‘I’m really sorry about what just happened.’

‘Why did you tell him?’ he asks, still sounding pissed off with me.

‘I didn’t. He figured it out last night. I didn’t know that he was going to come in here today though. I’m really sorry.’

‘So you’re dating him?’

Shit, how do I answer that? ‘I was. But it’s over.’ Of all the lies I’ve told today that’s the one that sounds least plausible.

‘So how many of us are you stringing along?’ he asks me out of the blue. Okay, he’s really pissed off with me.

‘I’m not stringing anyone along.’

‘You weren’t paid to sleep with me?’ he asks bitterly.

How does he know? I pretend to look dumbfounded. ‘What? By who?’

‘I don’t know! Jamal or Angus?’

‘Jamal?’ I try to laugh, but hysteria gets caught in my throat. ‘What the fuck? And who’s Angus?’

He studies my face, trying to work out whether I’m telling him the truth.

‘I can’t believe you,’ I continue in fake outrage. ‘You actually think that I’m some kind of whore just because we fucked the other night?’

‘That’s not what I –’

‘You want to know why I slept with you: because, strange as this sounds now, I actually wanted to. But fuck you, Thomas. And fuck this job too. No wonder Jamal left without saying anything.’

Yes! I have a reason to escape now. And Jamal’s not around to stop me. Freedom beckons. And celebratory champagne is waiting at home.

‘Julianne, wait –’

I slam open the door and march over to my desk to pick up my bag and coat.

Millie runs up to me and awkwardly whispers, ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I tell her, trying to adopt a sensible tone to reassure her that I am. ‘I’m more than fine: I just quit. I can’t stand working here anymore.’ I feel sorry for her because I was her only friend amongst the office drones who criticised us merely for being younger than them. I say loudly, ‘You’re the only nice person in this office. And I’m glad that we’re friends. Stay in touch – in fact, I’ll call you about making me some more dresses.’ After all, Amelia’s wedding is coming up.

Millie looks so sad that I kiss her on the cheek before dashing out of the office, not bothering to say goodbye to Thomas or anyone else.

My heart’s pounding as I run down the stairs. So what if Jamal decides to kill me? At least I’ve lived a varied and fulfilling life up until now. And it’s only downhill from here anyway as my body wrinkles, my skin sags and I sprout white hair all over the place. It’s probably for the best that I’m put down so I don’t turn into the evil queen in Snow White, talking to myself in mirrors, hating on younger women, and lamenting the death of my youth.